The first hands which touch me are the rough, calloused warn hands of the carpenter, hands that first hold me before he gives me to my mother.
The first smells I know are the earthy dust of the road in the carpenter’s cloak, the hay for the animals, the animals with all their smells, and my mother.
The first sights I see are the hands pulling me from the womb, the blurry face of the carpenter and then my mother, the light from the single lamp.
The first tastes upon my tongue are my mother’s breast and then her milk, saltiness then sweetness.
The first sounds I hear are my own cry, my mother’s pain, my father’s tears of joy, the sounds of animals at rest.
The first physical sensations I experience are the touch of cloth wiping away blood, the prickliness of the hay, the hardness of the trough, the coolness of the night air.
The first touch upon my heart is the love of my mother, the love of my father, both loces accompanied by fear and pride, wonder and amazement, and awe.
So it begins.
Photograph by Anna Langova via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.